Thunder
by elenwyn
Summary: Claire's home alone in the Petrelli mansion during a thunderstorm, and someone comes along to keep her company. Friendship!Paire oneshot.


**A.N: **Incase you're wondering, this came from the fact that, at this very moment in time, I'm having a thunderstorm. Plot bunnies started nibbling away at my brain and I couldn't ignore the urge. Then the power went, so without the lovely internet I was forced to work on it. My first fully friendship Paire, though I suppose if you squint there is some romance there.

**Disclaimer/Warnings: **Safe up to the end of Season 1. Rating only for the swearing. I don't own Heroes, sadly, but if I did, Paire would _so_ be together.

Enjoy!

--

A flash streaked across the sky, illuminating her eyes with a ghostly hue.

"One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three –"

There it was again, closer this time, that low rumble that seemed to hang right over the mansion. Claire peeked out of the heavy curtains, watching as the rain trickled down the panes, fogging up the glass and making it difficult to see.

This was her first storm in New York, and she thought back to the ones she'd had in Odessa, where she'd huddle together with Lyle, a united front in the war against flashing lights and inevitable power cuts, drawing faces on the misted glass until their father came in with a torch and a comforting smile.

Now though, she was technically home alone. Her bio-dad, Nathan, his wife and Claire's grandmother had gone to some political fundraiser, and her half-brothers were sleeping over at friends. She was entrusted with the entire Petrelli mansion; a giant step in the tenuous bond that held father and daughter together.

She was fine with thunderstorms, really. She'd just sit in her room trying to do Math, and occasionally look out of the window –

Another flash of lightening startled her, making her shut the book with a slam as she glanced at the window.

"One Mississippi, tw –"

It was closer now, pretty much over her head, and Claire had to breathe deeply to quell her beating heart.

'Cause the indestructible teenager was definitely _not_ scared of thunderstorms. Nuh-uh.

But the rumbling was disrupting her concentration – at least that's what she told herself, and that was when she realised she didn't have a torch handy. What if the power cut out?

Trying to reassure herself that she wasn't scared, Claire decided to take that moment as an opportunity to go downstairs in search of one, placing her book carefully on the beside table, venturing out of her room and across the corridor.

The Petrelli mansion was an eerie place at night; it was definitely too big for the small teenager to be cooped up there on her own. She felt exposed, like something was going to jump out of one of the big, empty spaces and grab her.

Chiding herself for having an over-active imagination, but thoughts of running from Sylar or struggling to escape from the Haitian fresh in her mind, she began to creep downstairs, her first plan to go into the kitchen and see if there were any torches there.

…And that's when the power cut out.

"_Shit_."

Claire didn't usually swear, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Oh, God…Oh, God…"

Hesitantly, momentarily forgetting that a fall down the stairs couldn't really hurt her, she took another step, groping in the darkness for the feel of expensive carpet underneath her toes. She clung tightly to the banister, exhaling when she finally reached the bottom.

_Okay, Claire-bear, you can do this_, she reassured herself, looking around her surroundings – or rather, her perceived surroundings – to judge where she should go next.

"The kitchen's to the…left," She muttered to herself, pointing vaguely and taking her first few steps in that direction, hands stretched out in front of her. It felt quite odd, almost like she was learning to walk again. She felt vulnerable, and the imperishable girl did _not_ like that feeling at all.

Claire was pretty certain she'd found the kitchen door when she heard a noise, immediately stopping in her tracks to cling onto the doorframe, panic rising in her throat.

Footsteps. She could definitely hear footsteps.

Thinking quickly, she fumbled about her environment, picking up the nearest, heavy object close to her; one of Angela's priceless vases. Claire didn't feel any remorse, she had no doubt her grandmother could replace it.

Steadying herself as the footsteps came closer; the direction of them coming to the back door of the kitchen, Claire hoped it was just a burglar.

Thieves she could deal with, if it was Sylar, or someone from the Company, she was screwed.

She heard the doorknob creak and turn, and raised the vase over her head. As soon as the hazy silhouette of a person appeared through the frame, she struck, hitting the would-be assailant hard on the head.

"_Fuck_! What the hell, Claire?"

The click of the torch revealed her mystery person, and Claire's face turned several shades of red.

It was Peter.

Pieces of vase were scattered all over the marble floor, any scratches her uncle obtaining healing themselves without much fuss. The girl bit her lip and looked at the remnants of the vase in her hand, "Sorry. I thought…well…I thought…"

She trailed off, gingerly putting the remains of the vase on the nearby kitchen side.

"Sorry," She added again for good measure, still not looking him in the eye.

Peter, however, had seen the funny side, the torch lighting up his face in an almost grotesque manner, hazel eyes twinkling, "Are you, erm, scared of thunderstorms, Claire?"

"No!" She retorted, too quickly, "I mean, I…of course I'm not. Jeez."

She turned away from him, feeling uncomfortable in his presence, before rounding on him herself, "And you could've called! You could've been a murderer or something!"

"Claire," Peter answered slowly, moving to the back of the kitchen and fumbling around, before returning with another torch, "The phone lines are out. I tried getting through on your cell but there was no signal."

He handed the torch to her as the blonde let out a silent, 'Oh,' in response.

"Why're you over here anyway?" She questioned, now feeling a little sheepish.

"Thought you could use some company." Even in semi-darkness, Claire could still see his trademark lopsided grin shining through, "I thought we could set up camp in the sitting room…Nathan and I used to do it all the time when we were younger."

Claire smiled, instantly grateful for the offer, even though she wouldn't admit it.

A few minutes later, she found out what 'setting up camp' actually meant in the Petrelli household. It meant getting every available duvet from around the house – excluding Angela's as she always kicked up a fuss about it, apparently – and piling them into the sitting room, manoeuvring the furniture so they formed a sort of circle. They then placed the duvets over the chairs and crawled into the space left inside, forming a make-shift tent and shielding them from the storm.

An hour ago, Claire couldn't have imagined that she'd be goofing off like this with her uncle, even more that she would learn Nathan was deathly afraid of storms himself.

The pair spent the remaining hours amusing themselves: telling ghost stories, making silly puppet figures with their torches against their temporary ceiling, just enjoying each others company.

As the storm subsided, the rumbling of thunder growing steadily distant, Peter sighed, "We better get all this cleaned up before Nate gets back, he'll go berserk."

"I was more worried about your mother," Claire noted.

"Good point." He began to stand up – they'd been sitting cross-legged on the carpet – but Claire's hand on his halted his movements, and he looked across to her.

"Thanks," She said softly, "I guess…I am sorta afraid of thunder." She let out a small giggle, "Silly, huh?"

Peter shrugged, "Everyone's gotta be afraid of something, kiddo."

"Don't call me 'kiddo', old man," The blonde chided with a grin, nudging him sharply on the arm, "And what're you afraid of then?"

"Oh…" Suddenly, Peter was quieter, "Nothing in particular."

"Liar," Claire wouldn't be swayed, "_Everyone's gotta be afraid of something_, remember?"

"Hey, don't throw my words back at me," The man laughed, "It's nothing, I –"

He was interrupted by the sound of a car pulling up onto the drive. The pair looked around them, now wearing anxious expressions on their faces.

"How long do you think it'll take before Ma realises we used her expensive, goose-feather sheets?"

"How long can you stop time for?"

--


End file.
